Perhaps there was some faint ray of hope underlying the wording of Rosamund’s sudden appeal. For it was with a new and even more bitter pang that the last certainty came to her, as Frances, without a single word of answer, raised startled, almost terrified eyes to hers, and as their looks met, blushed a deep, painful scarlet.
Words between them were unnecessary, nor could either have spoken.
The concert went on, and Rosamund wished that it could never stop. In the blur of sound which seemed to surround her, she did not think that she would ever realize what had happened. It would all remain chaotic and unreal.
There was a little movement beside her, and Frances’ small, soft hand sought hers, like that of a child seeking reassurance.
They did not look at one another, but for a moment their hands clung together.
“Shall we make a move now, before the crush?” said Mrs. Severing wearily. “Some of these renderings are really rather more than I can stand.”
Bertha shrugged her shoulders very slightly, and looked at Rosamund and Frances.
“Come out of the moon, Rosamund. You don’t look half awake, my child. We want to get out of this before everyone begins to crowd. Come along, Minnie, come along.”
Rosamund, in a dream, followed the wide, efficient figure of her guardian. Miss Blandflower had jammed a small rabbit-skin tie into the back of her stall, and, wrestling with it in an agony, was blocking the exit for both Frances and Mrs. Severing.
“Oh, my fur—dear me, isn’t that tiresome, now! So sorry—do excuse me....”